The drake felt death breathing down his neck. He laughed.
“I cannot imagine killing me will end well for you — or accomplish your goals, for that matter,” he said, peering down at nothing. He smelt the holly.
“One day I’ll find the will, you know.”
“What has it been? Ten, fifteen gyras?” He fluttered his tongue. “I don’t glimpse you doing this out of any lingering hate.”
Something sharp slid into a sheath. “I still don’t like you.”
A smile she couldn’t see. “Understandable. But as long as you do this, I can’t help but still see the knee high little moltling who couldn’t hold a knife steady, or even pronounce ‘kill’ correctly.” Quietly, he knew she wouldn’t do it, knew she wasn’t like him. Not Mlaen’s little flower.
She said, “I’ve come a long way.”
“You have. And some things never change.”